To feel safe, I lock myself into bathrooms. As a child, in the yellow bathroom, I'd witness a crack between tiles become a goose in flight. The blue bathroom lacked windows: perpetual moonlit night. A secret cave hid under the silver towel rack. I'd crouch over the floor vent in warmth like the womb's, but dry. Heat rose up my shirt, billowed my sleeves. At work, with a lock's click, I escape phones and words, words. I run water. It steams the mirror, blooming into a veil of sound thrown over my head. I can't look at myself. I disappear.
Mary Ann Honaker is the author of Becoming Persephone (Third Lung Press, 2019). She lives in Beaver, West Virginia. Find Mary Ann at maryannhonaker.wordpress.com and on Twitter @MaryAnnHonaker1.